


Captain Shakespeare

by ninthlife



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Captain Watson, Drugs, Light Bondage, M/M, Pirates
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-13
Updated: 2017-12-03
Packaged: 2018-12-14 18:28:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11788911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ninthlife/pseuds/ninthlife
Summary: Good night, Sherlock, sleep well, I’ll most likely kill you in the morning.





	1. The Black Pearl

The seventh of Sherlock’s several dozen mistakes: the gunpowder in the cargo hold isn’t gunpowder. There’s no treasure, and the gunpowder isn’t gunpowder. It’s better—it’s valentine.

Had he resisted smoking it, perhaps he would have evaded capture for longer. But that sweet, glittering pink dust coating his fingers when he pried open each cask—how could he resist? He tore pages from his own journal to roll himself cigarettes, and that was how they found him—sitting in the spilled out remains of an overturned barrel, coated in it, tongue lolling out as he watches the pink hazy smoke curl into hearts around his head.

“A stowaway and a thief,” says the pirate who introduces himself as Mr. Mole, a name Sherlock is too stoned to scoff at, “the sharks will _love_ you.” Then, without hesitation, he draws his hand back and slaps Sherlock across the face.

His left cheek smarts and numbs. With his eyes closed, Sherlock turns his head, and offers the other side.

The man—tall, left leg shorter than his right, ginger-bearded, wiry, hardened by experience at sea—is caught off guard. “What are you doing?”

“Turning my other cheek. You’ve found me stowed in your cargo hold smoking your valentine, surely I deserve it. You're clearly a man who’s read his bible. But did you understand it?”

Sherlock waits for the other blow, cheek proffered, confident it won’t come. It doesn’t.

Instead, Mole pulls Sherlock to his feet and pulls a blindfold over his eyes. “Right. I’m taking you to see the Captain.” He ties Sherlock’s hands behind his back and leads him up the ladder and through the hatch.

The crew makes a commotion at the sight of him—seventeen, approximately (hard to tell without his eyes), small for a ship so large. A few of them get their hands on him, and spit lands on his face. But they take a sharp left, Mole pushing at the back of his shoulders, and as they pass through a door, the sloshing of the sea drowns out the sound of the sailors on the other side, their cat calls lost to each other.

Then, another room—this one with a carpet. Mole pushes him down into a stiff-backed wooden chair.

“Who’s this?”

Sherlock’s heart skips at the sound of the Captain’s voice. He’s closer than he expected.

“Stowaway, Captain. He got into the valentine.”

“And you’re bothering me with this because...?”

Sherlock straightens in his chair. “Mr. Mole and I have been exchanging pleasantries and bible verses.”

“Mr—?” Even with the blindfold, Sherlock can hear the scornful expression the captain sends his first mate. “His name is Mike.”

Sherlock turns in Mike’s approximate direction. “Mike. Charmed.”

“Smoking my valentine,” the Captain says, his voice smooth and full. “Give me one good reason not to throw you overboard right now.” To Sherlock’s right, Mike chuckles and sways on his feet. The ship crests over a large wave, keeling the boat from one side to another.

“The state of your cargo hold is paltry,” Sherlock says. “Yet you docked well North of Mystic Seaport and made no exchange of goods – beyond me. On the run, then, hoping to improve the value of your pathetic stash by harvesting lightning along the way, but you’ve trouble running into a storm that yields any product of consequence. No surprise there, as you’re running on routes that fell dead four years ago. Could be they’re familiar and you’ve got a shit navigator, could be you’re paranoid about police patrols and rival pirates. Quite rightly, I’m afraid – quality valentine’s scarce these days, and you’ve got the highest grade I’ve ever tasted. Congratulations, by the way, it really _buzzes._ Unfortunate that you’ve diluted a third of your casks with sugar, and half with salt. Not to worry, of course, the good stuff’s kept me occupied. Four days before you found me, which suggests that your security—”

“That’s enough.” The Captain’s hand finds his shoulder. Sherlock shuts his mouth. Next, he addresses his first mate. “Leave. Wait—” Sherlock wishes he could see the look on Mike’s face. “Tie him up.”

There’s silence as the Captain steps away and Mike wraps a length of rope around Sherlock’s chest, pinning Sherlock’s arms to his sides. A shame, really, as he’d almost got his hands free, but Sherlock’s always relished a challenge.

“Out.” The door closes as Mike goes. The Captain steps behind him and reties the sailor’s knots, pulling them tighter, straightening Sherlock’s posture. “If you want anything done right,” he says, “you’ve got to do it yourself.”

“Haven’t I—?”

“No.” He crosses in front of him again, and his right hand curls under Sherlock’s chin to lift his head for a better look at his face. The pad of the captain’s thumb presses against the corner of Sherlock’s lip. Sherlock turns his face into his grasp, mouth opening so he can kiss down the side of his strong, weathered, salt-stained hand. The Captain’s breathing goes heavy, low, and the sound fills the cabin. He encourages Sherlock’s attention as he drags his mouth down, inch by inch. Sherlock reaches the pulse point on his wrist and sucks. He moves back up through the center of his palm, flat of his tongue pressing and tasting as he drags his mouth up the line between the captain’s middle and ring fingers. He’s just begun to suck on the tips when the door opens again, and the Captain pulls his hand away as though burned. Sherlock leans forward, chasing after him, but he’s stepped backwards; Sherlock is left in the dark again.

“What do you want _now?”_

“The crew wants to know if you—”

“Hang what the crew wants, and get out!” The door closes again. The Captain, however, maintains his distance. Sherlock listens to the sloshing of the sea. There’s a dull roar of the sailors’ response as Mike passes on the news of the captain’s dissent. “You think just because you can rattle off a bunch of guesswork about my ship, I’ll forgive you for stowing away, smoking my cargo, and, what—ask you to join my crew?”

“I’d be happy to serve you, sir.”

“Hush.” A finger presses against Sherlock’s lips and draws away again before he can suck it into his mouth. A part of his head—the sober bit—wants to ask, _What’s gotten into you?_ But another part knows exactly what. “How’d you guess—did you know anything about the _Pearl_ before you climbed aboard?”

_Yes._ “I never guess.”

“So you simply saw my ship, induced its history, and climbed aboard for a joy ride?”

_He wants to know what I know about the treasure._ “For the valentine. I’m an addict, you know.”

The Captain’s deft, thick fingers run along Sherlock’s cheekbones, up to his temple, and slip beneath the blue blindfold to lift it away. Sherlock’s breath catches in his throat. He looks—he can’t look too long—it’s like staring into a star. His eyes trail down his neck, his chest, before settling instead on staring at the carpet. Red, oriental. And the captain’s shoes. Oh, God. _It’s just the valentine._ “You really shouldn’t bring up the fact that you dipped into my cargo when you’re trying to talk your way out of it.”

“I had to get away from the Baobabs.”

“What?”

That’s the way to lie—tell another truth. “The Baobabs, sir,” he says, his body trembling for the wrong reasons, “you must know the sea’s the best way out, and North. You haven’t been on the _Pearl_ long enough not to notice? They’re eating the Earth.”

The Captain looks him up and down, appraising him. Sherlock goes hot under the collar, can’t help but look again. Favors his left shoulder. Less sure of himself than the impression he wants to give, his chin raised too high, but it just makes him want to—it makes him want to— _Damn, Sherlock. Why did you smoke so much? You knew you’d be—_ He half expects the Captain to step forward, slip his hand between his legs, and say, “you’re not even a _real_ boy, are you?” (an argument that’d got him thrown off several other ships in the past) but he doesn’t, though he’s surely noticed. Sherlock tries to ignore the way he almost wants him to.

“Yes, I’ve noticed.” (Noticed what? He looks so grim—oh, yes, the Baobabs— _focus...)_ “Everyone’s got to deal with those. Doesn’t make you any less of a thief. And my only quality product, by your own admission.”

“It’s your own fault that you have so little. I did better when I captained the _Revenge._ ”

“Careful.” The sound of his voice goes straight to his stomach. “I still have half a mind to take you over my knee and show you your actions have consequences.”

“Yes, sir,” Sherlock says, wishing he could think of something petulant, instead. “Will you untie me now?”

“Maybe I like you this way.”

“Yes, Captain.” He strains again against his bonds, pleased by the pressure, letting the rough rope drag across his nipples. He’s wet.

“Have you nothing to say about my valentine?”

“I want it!” Sherlock’s voice raises involuntarily and his legs spread as he speaks. He writhes against the ropes. “I’m sorry, I couldn’t help it! You don’t know what it’s like out there, Captain! Please, I’m sorry. I’m an addict.” He falls from the chair and drops to his knees. “I’ll do anything...”

“That won’t be necessary,” the Captain says, and it’s everything Sherlock can do to keep from groaning in frustration. He doesn’t usually— _it’s the valentine,_ says his head again, but he knows that that’s not quite— “I’ll throw you off the ship,” the captain continues, quieter, and a shiver runs up Sherlock’s spine. He wants to press his head to the captain’s thigh, kiss inside his knees, lick at his ankles and arches—“to preserve my reputation, I’ve got a dummy. And you’ll sleep here in my quarters. We’ll put about for an evening in Baker’s Port. We’ll clean you up, and you can be—”

“Your new navigator,” Sherlock suggests, too eager. “I’ll use the stars. It’s easy.”

“Presumptuous little thing, aren’t you?”

“But I’m right.”

The Captain’s mouth quirks a smile, close-lipped, like it’s against his better judgment. “We’ll discuss it when there’s less val in your system.”

_That won’t change anything,_ every part of Sherlock’s mind says, but he doesn’t say that aloud. Heeding his own better judgment, he says nothing.


	2. The Captain's Masque

“Captain?”

“Whatever it is,” says Captain Shakespeare, flipping through a stack of letters on his desk, “it can wait.” He spares the restrained Sherlock half a glance, and smirks at the sight of him.

“I’ve waited a while.”

“Which has shown me just how good you are at it. Keep it up.”

_This is insufferable,_ Sherlock thinks, while his mirrorbird whispers back, _That’s him._

_Are you sure?_

_Of course I am. When am I ever wrong?_

_More often than you admit._

_We have that in common._

_You’re pranking me again._

_No pranks. That’s your little diplomat._

_Shut up._  
  


SEVEN YEARS AGO

Before Dr. Watson knew anything of the _Pearl,_ war gas, or enchanted mirror birds, he limped into Port Royal, alone.

He’d piloted the tiny cloud clipper skip the army had granted him with Stamford, the best friend he’d managed to make while serving in the South. Stamford was an excellent navigator, but John was glad to be rid of him. As the landscape scrolled by beneath them, shifting from geometric crop formations to thick forests and mountains to brightly colored, irregular fields dotted with castles, Stamford kept mentioning how John was going to thrive in Port Royal, how excellent the new city would be for his gunshot wound. So upon disembarking, when Stamford went right, John took a left, and felt immediately awash the relief of solitude found as an outsider in a crowd of strangers.

And they were _strange_ strangers. In this day and age, it was possible, and very in fashion, to arrange colored photons of light into a variety of particular patterns. In the South, this trend had all but ended the need for military oversight of the wealthier sects of the civilian populace. Even in the valentine-heavy areas where John patrolled and studied, the vast majority of citizens preferred to spend their time inside their endless castles of impossible geometry, wearing Nike socks and staring at triangles.

Here, residents took to the streets in droves, laughing and arguing, all wearing brightly colored masks and capes. When John stopped at a vendor to get himself one—might as well blend in—the keeper of the cart identified him as an outsider with a single, sidelong glance. “Bit weird, that triangle stuff,” he said, shaping the mask in his hands.

John chuckled. The Southerners all hated the flamboyant theatrics of the North. “I know.”

He’d asked for his mask to be a bit more fox-like than the ottery contraption he ended up with, but, not wanting to seem fussy, he put it on and continued on his way through the throng.

“Ever been to Shakespeare’s Ball before?”

“Who?”

The vendor smirked. “It’s the Captain’s Masque.”

“So it’s an event,” John concluded, “not just… the modern style.”

“Can’t be both?”

“There’s always a dominating force.”

“Definitely Shakespeare.”

“Must feel good to be the Captain.”

“Wouldn’t know. No one’s ever seen him.”

“No one?”

“Not in Port Royal.” The vendor leaned forward, conspiratorial. “And he’s fearsome. A killer, or so they say.”

“Who says so, if no one’s ever seen him?”

John got a dirty look for this, though he wasn’t sure what was so wrong with what he’d said. The vendor turned his attention again to the crowd, beckoning two young girls towards his cart. “Ladies! Best make sure you cover your face for the ball, or the Captain could come kill you in your sleep!”

The moon rose as John crossed the grounds and made his way through the castle gate. The Hell Hound following him slipped in through a crack in the door. It lingered with the other shadows at the outer edges, waiting.

Towards the center of the first courtyard, before the small, curling Baobab tree, a person in an elephant mask with long, flowing dark curls stood on a soapbox, giving some sort of lecture. As John drew closer, he heard the stranger say, “and I assure you, Captain Smith has nothing to do with the valentine trade in this area. From what I understand, he’s never even heard of it.”

John narrowed his eyes at that. Most everyone who sailed on the King’s waters ran into valentine traders whether they liked it or not. Surely Smith had _heard_ of it. Why tell such a bald-faced lie?

The crowd, however, was satisfied by this explanation, and dissipated, moving on to sample some of the arrangements of light Captain Shakespeare (presumably) had provided for consumption. This gave John the chance to approach.

“Excuse me?”

“What, have you got a message for the Queen about my behavior? Or are you about to argue with me using predictably inferior logic? I don’t do contradictions, and I don’t do time-wasters, and if I’m wrong, it’s because I’ve had a very long day, but please, for both our sakes, _don’t be boring.”_

He said all this very fast.

“I—I’m new here, actually. Bit different from what I’m used to. I just… I don’t know, it’s stupid, really… I just thought I’d say hello. To someone who… seems to look like they know what’s going on, I suppose. This _is_ a party,” John finished, sounding more defensive than he meant to. One of John’s best kept secrets was that he got along dreadfully with people. He could hardly stand talking to anyone. And it was all made that much more complicated by the masks. John felt like maybe the stranger just wanted him to go away. He felt like he may be a bit happier if he evaporated.

“Apologies,” said the elephant, turning to face John head-on and holding out his hand. John was now paralyzed with fear due to the fact that everything he could think to say was boring. “You’re an army doctor, I should have seen that sooner. Invalidated. How are you enjoying Port Royal?”

“I—excuse me?”

“Conversations are intended as dialogues, Mr. Otter, I do hope you will get more varied with your contributions. Ah! I left my riding crop in the mortuary. Care to come?”

John did. As they walked, the elephant explained to John all the details which linked the Waters Gang to a duo of fake-twin assassins. _“No one noticed the other agent,”_ he said, emphatic, before straightening his back and putting on what he must have believed to be a humble expression. “Except for me. I’m telling you, what’s really criminal is how little people _notice._ That’s why I have the _Problem._ ” _The Final Problem_ was the small boat from which Sherlock conducted most of his business, when he was not entertaining at masquerades.

“And this criminal obliviousness keeps people thinking your boat’s neutral territory, even though you’re clearly in service to the Queen?”

Sherlock straightened. “What makes you say that?”

“Only everything about you. You work for her.”

“In title only. It’s much more like she works for me. I don’t like handling… er, politics. Let alone our rather chilly neighbours to the East.”

“And it’s not political at all to further the Queen’s agenda.”

“God save her.”

“God save whatever populace they’ll be poisoning next week, more like.”

“If we look at the issue as one of unity—”

“Then those that need the most protecting will make compromises with their enemy, the val trade skyrockets, and the Queen’s irresolute and apathetic backbone will be all that’s left alive. Mark my words.”

An awkward silence fell between them. Sherlock turned his gaze to his shoes. “I’ve seen sinking ships go down with more grace than the Queen.”

“Good one,” John said, going for a drink. “Hilarious. That really cheered me up.”

_Idiot, idiot, idiot,_ John’s brain chanted. _What’d you have to go talking about the war for? With someone who works for the Queen, no less? Three Continents Watson really knows how to pick ’em._

But the man in the elephant mask had followed him. “How did you know?”

“What?”

“That I work for the Queen.”

John sniffed. “You thought I was going to report you to her, when I first spooked you,” John began. “But you’re nothing like an insurgent. You even went out of your way to reassure your listeners as to the innocence of a guilty man.”

“How do you know Smith’s guilty?”

“How do you know Captain Shakespeare doesn’t attend these balls?”

“What?”

“It’s _his_ masque. It’s in his honor. You’d think he’d attend.”

“Shakespeare never attends Shakespeare’s Ball,” said Sherlock, so automatic it came out in monotone.

“So they say. But what’s the point of skipping your own party if you don’t even need to show your face?”

“It’s a mystery. But everyone knows—”

“He’s here somewhere.” They stood side by side, John sipping his champagne and scanning the guests. He took two large gulps and turned to Sherlock. “Would you like to dance with me?”

They make it twice around the room, glued to each other, John glaring daggers over Sherlock’s shoulder over anyone who seemed to be angling to cut in, forgetting that his anger was mitigated by his otter façade. Dancing this close, John could smell the way the man’s breath was thick with valentine. The sweet, heady scent of it washed over him on every exhale. But when John asked if Sherlock smoked, the stranger shook his head, and said, “Never.”

It was Sherlock who took John by his hand and ducked off the floor towards the entrance to a tall, winding hedge labyrinth. They whip around four corners and come to rest in a dead end inlet with a mirror at its back.

“Don’t get too close to that leak,” John said, as Sherlock leaned right up against his own reflection. “Your other universes might creep in.”

“If they’ve got you in them,” Sherlock said, “I’m interested.”

John shoved his own mask to the top of his head and ripped off the elephant mask so he could begin peppering the stranger’s perfect face with kisses. “Hello,” he hummed, holding the man’s face in his hands. His eyes were… _arresting:_ adoring and honest, astonished and sad, with worlds circling around inside them. John began by kissing his brow. “It’s nice to meet you.” He kissed the side of the man’s nose, then the bridge, then the other side. He grabbed his companion by the hips and pulled them flush against his own, humming a moan.

“Um,” said Sherlock.

“I bet you get this all the time,” John continued, kissing along his cheekbones until he reached Sherlock’s ear. He dropped his voice to a whisper. “Someone as brilliant as you?” He latched his mouth over the ear and sucked until Sherlock writhed closer with a little hum, fingers digging into John’s back. “You’d have to be at least twice as smart as Shakespeare to have figured all that out.”

“I, uh—I don’t think—”

“And you shouldn’t have to,” John said, running his fingers into the man’s dark curls and guiding his head backward with gentle pulls to coax him into baring his neck. “Let me do some thinking for you.” John pressed thick kisses along Sherlock’s jawline, then, lower. “I’d like to duel everyone who’s failed to adore you properly.” John’s hands couldn’t make up their mind about where to land, wanting to clutch every part of him. “Show them a thing or two.” He pressed his left into the small of Sherlock’s back and used his right to hitch Sherlock’s thigh more securely around his waist. He moved his mouth down Sherlock’s neck, sucking on the hollow of his throat, then over his collarbone. “About the right way—to treat—that great—big—brain.” Sherlock threw his head back and squeezed John between his legs.  “Brilliant,” John purred. Sherlock gasped when John hit just the right spot where his neck met his shoulder, a small sound. John touched his mouth down again in the same place, tongue darting out to lick the skin. “So good for me.”

“I’m—I’m—” _Not ‘good,’_ Sherlock thought.

“The best damn reason anyone’s got to visit Port Royal. They should put you in the brochures.” John’s hands dipped beneath Sherlock’s waistline to press against the heat there while his lips came to rest again on the shell of Sherlock’s ear, whispering his short songs of praise. “It’s a _crime_ you’re not in the brochures. You’re the main attraction.”

“I’m in—I might be in one.”

“Oh, _are_ you?” John slipped his thigh between Sherlock’s to give him some more leverage to rut against. “I’m so jealous of everyone up in that damn castle... Who can see you, and smell you, and touch you, and taste you…” Their lips met. John worried Sherlock’s plump lower lip between his teeth. “…any time they like. You’re at their mercy. Is that right?” Sherlock couldn’t speak. John had taken his most sensitive strip of skin between two of his fingers and was gently pinching. “Just so you know you’re not dreaming,” he growled, rubbing and then dipping his fingers gently _in._ Sherlock slumped back against the mirror, writhing in John’s hand. “They don’t appreciate you, if you’ve got to resort to peddling out your genius to us common people like it’s a magic trick. Or is that just what you like? Coming out of your tower and getting all dirty?”

“I—I’ve never—”

“Just like you never tried valentine? Never high on your own supply, Captain?” John had no idea if his wild guesswork was close to the truth, but he was enjoying himself, and on a roll, so as far as he was concerned, he had a royal writhing up against a wall.

“I’m—not—”

“Lying becomes you. Look at that face.” Sherlock’s eyelids fluttered. “Yeah, like that. Never fucked on valentine before, have you? I can tell by how you kiss me.” John pinched again, and Sherlock cried out. “But maybe you’re not a captain. Maybe you’re a spoiled prince teasing at the edge of rebellion… who’s never had anybody rough him up or tell him he’s wrong in his life. Yeah?” He pushed himself up against Sherlock, kissing the larger man’s shoulders and rubbing his body along the length of him, pinning him to the mirror with want. He nuzzled his nose into Sherlock’s hairline and affixed his mouth on the stretch of skin just behind Sherlock’s ear, where the skin is soft as velvet. “Yeah? And I’m making you worse, getting off on the way you preen. Bet you’ve had dozens of me. Bet your family says I’m a no-good soldier.” _Bet I’m nothing special._ A strange noise sounds from somewhere beyond the mirror, within the labyrinth’s corridors. “What was that?” he asks in a hush, still petting absently at Sherlock.

Sherlock shuddered. “Don’t _stop!”_

_Not for anything,_ John thought, stroking his thumb along the same place so he could hear Sherlock shudder again. “As you wish,” John said. He’d cross the ocean for that sound. “Is it a problem that I want to put my mouth on virtually every part of your body?”

Sherlock squirmed and panted in a way John translated as _That can be arranged._ “What if I… what if I really was? Captain Shakespeare?” John rubbed at Sherlock’s nipples through his shirt.

“Then I’d have to kiss your feet,” John teased, nudging Sherlock’s toes with his own as he traced his fingers up Sherlock’s navel. He was wearing bright red ceremonial shoes. “Or maybe I’d run. I hear he’s terribly dangerous.”

“I hear he’ll swallow you whole.”

“You can’t believe everything you hear.”

“Can’t I?”

“Anything’s possible.”

It was then that the leak began to behave in a highly unusual way.

                [REDACTED – HIGHLY CLASSIFIED]

The following day, Sherlock made his way to the clifftops outside of Port Royal and waited for the North Wind.

“Please, sir,” he said, burning thyme as an offering, “I wish for peace to come to Port Royal.”

The North Wind came in, frigid, off the sea. “Your first wish, I cannot grant you. Peace demands its own passage.”

So Sherlock sat, and lit a fire, and burnt more thyme and wildflowers and sage. He read the signals in the smoke, and, when the time was ripe and the wind was strong, he composed a new spell, and wished again. The North Wind nodded. “When the debt is served, it shall be so.”

“How long will that take?”

“You will see when the time is right,” said the North Wind.

“But how will I know the _absolute right_ time?”

“I shall send someone to you,” said the East Wind, not to be upstaged by his older brother, of whom he was jealous. “A rare and mysterious bird. When the time is right, you will see my design.”

_Your_ design? Thought Sherlock and the North Wind.

“No use asking how much time is left?”

“No,” said the East Wind, “though that is the right question.”

And with that, the winds fell still.

*

The time had felt _right_ since the end of last Fall, and so many years had gone by, that even at the urgings of his mirrorbird, Sherlock was not sure if this was the man from the masque. His _voice—_ but he could be misremembering. The Captain hadn’t shown any particular signs of recognition. The bird took pleasure in playing tricks, John hadn’t been a part of his wish to the winds, _necessarily_ , and when they’d had their little tryst, Sherlock had known with certainty that that man hadn’t been, _couldn’t_ have been, _Captain Shakespeare,_ of all people _._ Just some clever soldier who talked to strangers in Port Royal.

But there he sat, at his desk, flipping through maps and star charts. Handsomer and more distinguished than how Sherlock remembers his sailor. And, nestled safe in his pocket, Sherlock’s mirror bird whispers, again, _That’s him._

Sherlock concentrates all his thoughts on the back of Shakespeare’s head and tries to focus on the few details he can still recall from their night in the labyrinth. He hopes he can just project the past into the Captain’s mind without having to speak his suspicions aloud and betray all the hope that hides in his voice. Sometimes Sherlock gets so sick of himself. He’s always wrong about everything. A fraud, just like they said. What even was truth, anyway?

_Blink twice if you remember me._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So nice to escape into this world! Hope my worldbuilding and stylistic choices aren’t too weird, I have a lot of ideas buzzing around in my head lately and this is something of a siphon. Really wasn’t sure about the time jump at first, but here we are! And, uh, hoping to get more into the mirrorbird telepathy next chapter lol. Wrote this chapter while listening to Stabat Meter by Woodkid, Don’t Be Cruel by Elvis Presley, Colour Me In by Damien Rice, and Eugene and My Blue Bucket of Gold by Sufjan Stevens. I have been listening to tons of new music and would love to listen to more artists you like so please feel free to share a song or two you’ve been listening to. I hope you liked it, thanks for reading :)


	3. Lost in Space

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve been listening to “Hast Thou Considered the Tetrapod” off The Sunset Tree by The Mountain Goats, “Terrible Love” by The National, and Strangeways Here We Come. Been reading “Timequake” and “Breakfast of Champions” by Vonnegut in snatches. Sorry again, and thank you for not listening.

I recount these events from inside my rocket ship, which currently resides in the belly of a whale. To those confused by this situation, who wish to know more about it, I say, “So?”

Long before the cult revolts usurped militia rule in Neo Royal, before Captain Shakespeare got cozy with royalty, and before I ~~stole~~ found _The Falcon,_ there lived a man named Kilgore Trout.

Kilgore Trout is a failed science fiction writer for whom I hold a great deal of affection and admiration. There is no figure more romantic than the failure, if only because there is little more insufferable than someone who considers themselves a success. In one of my favorite Trout pieces, _Kindly Remain on the Holodeck,_ “succeeding” is an illusion sold by the government to a failing species to keep them from panicking as their organic spaceship identifies them as cancerous. The word has no definition, other than alluding to the idea that there is something more to life than eating, shitting, and reproduction. In the end, the success indulgences collapse with the economy, and the main characters meet God. God is a mixture of light and numbers who does not apologize for all the terrible things humanity has done. To err, after all, is divine.

My friend Fox Hudson, the literary critic, once suggested to me that failure is a uniquely queer art. They called this “The Queer Art of Failure.” Due to the social barriers We Queers face in the production of art, it is destined for a Doomed Corridor of misunderstood history, only to be stumbled upon and appreciated by other Queers, which is rather the point, in my opinion. Still, it seems selfish to let Queers hoard all the failure for themselves, especially since, in speaking of the success and failure of the human race, the Nuclear family takes the cake. And they don’t even get to have the satisfaction of knowing it, the poor dears. This is what it means when someone says, “they can’t have their cake and eat it, too.”

It must be clarified that the Kilgore Trout of which I presently write is not the same Kilgore Trout as the failed science fiction writer and war veteran who lived by the docks with a parakeet. This man is my friend; we met in the years when I was living in a shipping container by those same docks. Somewhere along his universal timeline, he was not sure where, Kilgore separated into a second self, to become a failed science fiction writer who was about half as prolific, but a millionaire.

You should never trust millionaires, said my friend Kilgore Trout, as he told me of his other self over tea. This was not something I needed to be told. I had read _Kindly Remain on the Holodeck,_ after all.

Kilgore was disappointed in his second self. So it goes.

I have a thin, white, horizontal scar half an inch long running through the center of my forehead. This is a relic from my infancy, when my caring and attentive mother pitched me headfirst into a coffee table. A plastic surgeon used five stitches to sew me up again. Until recently, I considered this anomaly unremarkable. Only a month or so ago, however, while visiting my cousin, I learned that there are private, government-operated schools for wards of the state under eighteen with severe behavioral problems. I learned this from my cousin’s roommate, who works as a guard at one such facility. Some of the problems are “really serious.” One girl, for example, listens to her music all day. Most of the time is makes her laugh, but sometimes it makes her cry, and she has difficulty socializing with the other students. I assumed this was because she was under surveillance all the time, and forced to live in a jail where the condescending staff believe her to have severe behavioral problems. “Yeah, but it’s really bad though,” said my cousin’s roommate. “Some of the students have brain damage from being like, dropped on their heads as kids and stuff.”

This was the first time it ever occurred to me that I could have brain damage from the time I split my head open before I was one year old. For the record, this thought has never occurred to anyone else, either, including the multiple psychological professionals who have had the privilege of examining me. Perhaps it’s simply because I am not dumb enough to tell them I’ve had a head injury. From my perspective however, the young prison guard, who bragged about her 14 hour shifts at $14 an hour, seemed a more serious candidate for brain damage than I am. However, as there are inevitably consequences to everything, at least I can chalk up all further complaints about my personhood to the early damage sustained to my frontal lobe. I have not told anyone in my life about this, for fear someone will say, “Well, that explains everything.” If it _does_ explain everything, I have a lot of questions.

Since writing this piece, however, I met someone who told me that as the brain is still developing at that age, it is likely that it healed back stronger than before. I am very happy to have met this person, though I have no idea how we’re going to keep in touch, if at all. So it goes.

The failed Kilgore Trout, Millionaire also had a pet parakeet whom he kept in an ivory cage in the palace in Port Royal. She was imported all the way from America. Her words rang beautifully throughout the palace up until the revolution, at which point she squealed horrendously and dropped dead as stone, like a canary.

But before Kilgore Trout, Millionaire became Kilgore Trout, Millionaire, he was Kilgore Trout, promising science fiction writer. His works were distributed and enjoyed by approximately 10,000 people, which is quite a lot, considering the size of the universe and the number of human beings capable of properly appreciating science fiction.

If Kitty Galore enjoyed science fiction, it was not in a way that I could understand. What I understood about Kitty was that she, like so many girls before her, ran away from home to join the noble profession of totally nude dancing. I could not tell how Kilgore Trout, my friend, felt about totally nude dancing, but Kilgore Trout, Millionaire liked it very much indeed. My incomprehension of the pastime is, I assume, a symptom of the brain damage.

Like many young women, Kitty Galore harbored a secret conviction that the world would absolutely adore her if she only had a platform upon which to be adored. In this way, she was not unlike a nice vase. A nice vase, however, was just what the doctor ordered for Kilgore Trout, Almost Successful Science Fiction Author, and so their beautiful love story began.

(Unfortunately, the jade hairpin was a much more valuable find, but no one cared. So it goes.)

It was around this point in my friend’s relation of this story to me that it occurred to me how wonderful it would feel to be this very stripper. My friend looked at me quizzically, and I could feel Kilgore Trout, Millionaire witnessing my perspective with agony from beyond the grave.  Kitty was into “really crazy shit,” as she assured anyone, but it occurred to me, from a vague distance, that it may feel good to be the muse of a failed fiction writer. As terribly sad as it would be, holding a bouquet of someone else’s imagination, it might feel quite nice to be adored as thought-turned-flesh. This is a very romantic view of things, however. My friend assures me that cocaine was also involved.

In the same way that I connected spiritually with the posthumous Kilgore Trout, Millionaire, however, I simultaneously connected with Mummy Galore, who was incensed that a word like “miraculous” would ever be used to describe the cruel and inevitable machinations of the world. In her view, her daughter would have been much more successful far away from Hollywood, where they made her shave her hair as a twisted form of debasing penance. Either penance, or red was simply too terrible a color to muddy the frame with, especially in the age of color correction: someone ought to have told her that the last successful Hollywood redhead was Katharine Hepburn, who hid it in the safety of black-and-white. This is what people are talking about when they say that technological innovation has the power to steal countless jobs.

“How terrible,” I told my friend, imagining Kitty’s alternatively successful life as a Kindergarten teacher.

“Quite,” said Kilgore Trout. “So it goes.” This revelation shed a great deal of new light on the behavior of others in Port Royal when I attempted to tell them of Kilgore Trout, my friend. The most mystifying element of the whole affair was how Kilgore conducted it under the apparently permissive eye of his attentive and beloved mother.

Since connecting with the mirrorbird species which I mention in the previous chapter, I have begun to have vivid dreams of immense clarity. Some feel quite prophetic and regard the end of the world. Others, however, are about Kilgore Trout. In the dream I am thinking of now, I am sitting down to meet Trout for dinner. I see his face. And with the same, sudden jolt one feels when they hit the brake to accommodate for a sudden stop in traffic, I see my face as Kilgore Trout, Millionaire sees it as I look upon Kilgore Trout, my friend. And I feel in my bones all the terrible anguish it takes to live with the burdens of Kilgore Trout, Millionaire, and before I, face shining, can say a single word, I, Kilgore Trout, make my hasty escape from the restaurant.

This makes sense.

 

Kilgore Trout, my friend, who visited me in my shipping container, died last year. I miss him every day.

I think his last story should be titled _Never the Twain Shall Meet,_ but he insisted on _Ever the Train Shall Be,_ because he likes stupid puns. In it, a small town’s prize liar discovers a magic mirror which serves as an auditory portal into the lives of others, including the late, great Mark Twain. Twain is the only other person on Earth to access the portal and understand how it works. The hero of the story follows Twain’s footsteps down the Mississippi, a rapport growing between the protagonist, Twain, and the mirror itself. In the end, however, Twain shatters his mirror in fear and rage regarding the inevitable horrors of the future.

Kilgore Trout, my friend attempted to assure me that Kilgore Trout, Millionaire was beneath my pity and attention. Millionaires, as I needn’t remind you, are notorious liars that cannot be trusted—a scrap of advice never afforded poor Kitty Galore. As far as I am aware, she was last seen choking out another woman in a mock-porno shot of a big budget action sequel. The silver screen, a dying art form, must now incorporate such shots in order to keep pace with its sister and competitor, pornography, which is where all the money is, anyway. Neither woman was afforded the dignity of her own skin tone, as they were both aliens. Kitty’s role was otherwise small, bestial, and antagonistic. Sad!

This is what I mean about failure and the proper appreciation of science fiction. If you do not know what I mean by now, kindly return to the holodeck.

In rummaging around my Kilgore’s old things, I found many fragments of unfinished stories and ideas scrawled in blue ink on notebook paper, pieces of mail, and the backs of receipts. My favorite of these fragments is titled _The Pygmalion Papers._ In it, a failed science fiction writer is continually approached by psychical manifestations of his favorite creations, who insist that they’ve known him all their lives. As the story wore on, the writer were to realize that he, too, was his own fictional creation. He had not thought of an ending. The notes were very complicated.

I apologize for my very American intrusion upon the narrative, and know that it is rude, in the middle of someone else’s story, to talk about myself. But I am lonely, in my starship, in the belly of a whale. I miss my friend. I’m sure my peers, were I ever to have the guts to tell them, would assess that I’ve taken his loss “very hard indeed.” I do not know how I’ve taken it. I thank them for doing me the kindness of not listening to me. I feel better than I used to, and further away. I feel a lot of things. There is so much to think about. I am afraid of war, and failure. Last night, I saw the stars over the Grand Canyon. I have never seen so many. Orion was still there.

My father’s father was a cargo pilot in World War II. He flew injured soldiers over the Himalayas. I have one photograph of him, with his head poking out of his plane. His name was Tony. I don’t know why I’m telling you this. It is just something that I thought you would like to know.

I wrote this several months ago. I have since escaped my spaceship and gone on many more adventures. I love my mirrorbird, which has the capacity to be an enormous arse, when unchecked and untrained, in the service of either advertising, or showing me the patterns of the universe—never sure which. Kilgore wanted to write a story about it called _Driving Me Crazy._ One-eyed girls are involved, and the theory of forms. Nothing is ever new. I am trying my best to write another, original story, as usual, even if all it will ever be is another fading portal to the past. I will finish it someday, as I expect myself to return here, eventually. I have more mistakes to make. I have learned about the trees, for instance: they touch, talk, walk, and listen. They’re advancing; they sow seeds. Even in death—the walls are listening, and have been all along. Matter advances, machines evolve. We’re still here, trapped down a very deep gravity well, generating power. Still here. Still. Staying still—still as static. We move much slower than the trees, our inner ecosystems so complicated it can be hard to look each other in the eye. We write it down, for the record. I’m lucky to be exactly where I am. I am sorry for the mistakes made by my mania and imagination. I am sorry for self-centered moments of bitterness, cynicism, and vanity. I must be going now. There’s somewhere I ought to be, though I’m not sure where. I am happy to keep in touch. I will not be swallowed up by oblivion.

As always, with love,

The author


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